Aftermath
by aFineMess5
Summary: A story told anachronistically to relay how CC learns to deal with the aftermath of her decisions. Please R&R. The characters are not mine and should never have been made into a parody, which can ruin lives.
1. Part One

Aftermath

Part One: After

_November_

Niles entered the penthouse, closing the door behind him. It left a strange echo, one that extinguished quickly as though it were shushing itself. The butler glanced around, looking for Chester. The spirited pup could usually be counted on to greet Niles excitedly, even if the same couldn't always be said of his owner.

He stepped out of the vestibule and glanced over at the sunken living room, spying a puff of orange fur on the white couch. Chester lifted his head and stared at Niles, the dog's tail completely still. Niles cocked his head to the side, similar to how Chester usually did, and stared at the Pomeranian. The dog merely rested his head back down on his tiny paws, despondent.

Niles furrowed his brow and continued past the dining room and into the expansive kitchen. He set down the paper bag full of fresh ingredients and began chopping, dicing, and shredding. Soon, the comforting aroma of chicken noodle soup filled the kitchen and wafted into the rest of the penthouse. It even brought Chester into the kitchen, where he sat at Niles' feet hoping that the butler might drop some shredded chicken.

When the ingredients were getting to know each other on a low simmer, Niles stepped back into the open main floor of the penthouse. Things were too eerily still. It wasn't until Niles realized that he was determinedly _not_ looking at the corner near the vestibule that he realized something was there. Some_things_, actually. Two black wingtips, decidedly not his own.

Chester ran back to his spot on the couch, and later, Niles would catch himself wondering if somehow the dog knew.

Mechanically, Niles put one foot in front of the other and took the familiar path to CC's bedroom. Niles noticed the shift in possession, that it was no longer _theirs _or _his_ but rather _hers_. It had always been hers.

He wrapped his hand around the smooth steel doorknob. He pushed it gently down and the door, so slowly it was painful, swung open. Friction caused it to stop before it reached the doorjamb. There were two figures on the bed. One was facedown, the silky sheet thankfully covering the lower half of his body. _His_. It was clearly a man.

The second was perched on the corner of the bed nearest the door, one knee drawn up to the chest. A satiny robe hung off of one shoulder. Her blonde hair was slightly tousled.

CC looked up at Niles with an indescribable look in her eyes. Niles didn't take much time to attempt to describe it, though, as he turned and softly closed the door behind him. He walked through the hall and back into the kitchen, where he gently turned the stove until it clicked off.

He felt his chin quiver slightly, and he let it continue for a couple of seconds before he set it firmly again. Waving to Chester, Niles let himself out of the penthouse and locked the door behind him.

_CC, _

_Sometimes, one is too happy to pull back the curtain. I find myself guilty of this, and I can't help but wonder if things might have been different if I had bothered to. _

_The "might have been" conversation will, as usual, lead to nowhere and so I won't waste any more of your time. _

_It is therefore with sincerest regret that I'm going to do the one thing you've been silently begging me to do for too long now: I'm going to let you go. _

_Yours, _

_Niles_


	2. Part Two

[A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Kate, my Tumblr soul mate and the person who single-handedly ruined Niles and CC for me. Happy birthday!]

Part Two: Before

_September_

CC felt Niles' hand on the small of her back, gently guiding her toward their table. She preened as she spotted others staring jealously at her gown. Made of a light silk organza, the dress was luminescent in the soft light and cast a glow about her. The muted gold color suited her skin tone and the halter cut displayed her exquisite shoulders.

Two waiters, resplendent in tuxedos, pulled open the French doors leading to their private dining area. The curtained glass doors shut behind them and immediately, the sound of the other diners muted and was replaced by classical violin music. The ceiling was extravagantly vaulted and draped in gauzy chiffon, twined with soft white fairy lights.

Their private table was set simply but elegantly with a single white orchid as the centerpiece. A bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket near the table told CC that interference from serving staff would be minimal this evening, and she was captivated with the beauty of it all.

"Do you like it?" Niles asked softly in her ear. His breath slid over her ear and down her neck, causing her skin to erupt in gooseflesh.

"Of course," CC replied, her voice still tinged with wonder.

Niles squeezed her hand before leading her to her chair, quickly pulling it out for her. In a rustle of silks, CC arranged the skirt of her gown and sat down.

"Niles, you didn't have to go to such trouble," she said, touching the fine linen of the tablecloth.

"I know it's nicer than the trop you usually eat out of," Niles began, his eyes twinkling, "but it's our one-year anniversary. I wanted it to be special."

"It _is_," CC assured him, glancing up at the chandelier that sat at the apex of the draped chiffon. "It's gorgeous in here."

"It pales in comparison," Niles said as he poured her champagne.

CC smiled as she accepted the flute. "You're sweet."

"Hm, I was talking about myself," Niles teased as he poured a flute of his own.

CC laughed, delighted and intoxicated with the atmosphere, the bubbles tickling her nose, and her immense amount of feeling for this wonderful, wonderful man.

"I love you," she told him, happy to say it freely and proud of herself for the ability to do so after so long.

"I love you, too, sweetheart," Niles told her, squeezing her hand. With his free one, he lifted his flute in the air. "To us."

"To us," CC repeated, clinking her glass against his.

As if from nowhere, a waiter appeared bearing two plates of arugula, pear, and gorgonzola salad. Soon after setting the plates down, he disappeared again.

As she picked up her salad fork, CC commented, "What service. I'm not used to being served meals without an insult or two."

"I did find his performance lacking," Niles admitted as he speared a pear with the tines. "He didn't drop even one bit into your lap."

The couple lapsed into a comfortable silence as they enjoyed their salad.

The dreamy, romantic atmosphere was barely punctuated by servers removing plates and adding new ones with courses Niles had ordered in advance. CC felt her entire persona inflate with happiness, as if she were one of the bouncy castles she'd always begged her father to buy for her when she was younger.

Their conversation dashed and swerved and lingered in the way that CC had grown accustomed to, finding that the random turns and intervals delighted her more than any other conversation had before. She reveled in the insults, as usual, but was just as enthralled with his take on current events or even his opinion on a movie they'd watched recently. He had the uncanny ability to make her laugh _and_ make her think, and it was this more than anything else that endeared him to her. She had even found that his humble upbringing, instead of shaming her, had actually molded him into a wonderfully magnanimous and understanding man with a unique perspective on life.

"CC? Still with me?" Niles asked, breaking into her thoughts. She came to with a smile and nodded. "Good. The dessert's on its way."

"Dessert? I couldn't possibly…" CC stopped herself as she saw the chocolate swirl cheesecake set down between them. The server walked off before CC could ask for another spoon.

"We don't need two," Niles said, reading her mind. He picked it up, sliced it through the tip of the cake and, being sure to get some of the crust on the spoon, offered it to her. She leaned forward delightedly and accepted his offering.

"Oh, my God, this is _amazing_," CC said. "My turn, my turn." She took the spoon from him and got another bite on it, electing to eat it herself instead of giving it to him.

"You glutton," Niles said, crossing his arms in mock anger.

CC laughed and wiped a bit of chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

When Niles uncrossed his arms, CC noticed his right hand wasn't empty. It was clutching something small and dark. Before she could even set down her napkin, Niles was at her side on one knee.

"CC," he began.

In a strange, adrenaline-induced moment, CC's senses piqued and she thought she could hear the clinks and chatter of the patrons outside of their dreamy cocoon. A second later, a _whoosh_ing sound filled her ears and the violin music sounded much louder than normal. Then, with what sounded like the air being let out of a tire, CC heard Niles' last sentence.

"Will you marry me?"

The question hung in the air between them, the letters looping and merging and increasing in size until it barricaded her from him. Then the jumble of letters and words exploded, covering the couple with a dizzying array of glitter. CC blinked and more got in her eyes, but then it turned to snow and melted into water on her cheeks.

Her heart pounded a rhumba in her chest, and for an insane moment, she wanted to get up and dance to it.

Then the sparkle from the exquisitely cut diamond winked at her and she came back down to earth.

"Yes!"


	3. Part Three

Part Three: During

_September_

I.

Long ago, Dr. Bort suggested that I begin writing my thoughts down. When I told her that I already _did_ this, she oh-so-kindly reminded me that "to do" lists aren't my thoughts. I don't understand why. I've only ever thought about what it was I had to do. Therapists. What do they know?

I tried a few years ago, when I felt like my world was ending. (Right around the time Nanny Fine started working at the house.) I couldn't get over how juvenile and horribly _feminine_ I felt writing in a diary. The good doctor encouraged me to think of it as a "reflective journal," but that didn't do anything. So I gave it up.

But lately…well, I think I could be helpful. It can't possibly hurt, so if it helps, then bully for me.

II.

I had to get some clarification from Dr. Bort on how to do this. She seemed reluctant to give me advice, as though I were supposed to just know how to do this. Am I a 12-year-old girl? No.

I don't need to start each entry with "Dear Diary." (Thank God.)

I don't need to give every single detail of my day. (Which is helpful since I don't even remember what I had for breakfast this morning.)

I just need to write what's on my mind and how I feel about it. (A bagel and a coffee! HA.)

What I really wanted to know, and what I didn't ask, is how I'm even supposed to know how I feel about things. Isn't that why I'm in therapy? Because I don't know?

III.

All right. Here are some new developments in my life:

Sheffield-Babcock Productions began work on a revival of _A Chorus Line_.

Sheffield-Babcock Productions was forced to find a new choreographer.

Ok, three new choreographers. Maybe I should look into why I loathe choreographers so much.

Yves Saint Laurent invited me to a trunk show for their winter line and I put in an order for the most gorgeous black gown.

Chester got a haircut and looks like an orange pom-pom. (Is that a pun?)

Maybe this is why I haven't written in a journal before. God, my life is _bleak_ when viewed in letters on a page. I wonder if everyone else's would seem as mundane, too.

Oh. Right. One more.

Niles proposed.

IV.

Dr. Bort asked me why, all of a sudden, I got the desire to start a journal. I told her that it was just a whim, like shoe shopping or stopping in a chocolate store. She probably knew I was lying, since this woman knows I don't do anything in this world without heavily considering the necessity and practicality and weighing the pros and cons. Still, she didn't press it.

Thank God it isn't illegal to lie to your therapist, that perjury isn't a real thing on the ubiquitous couch. I'm too delicate for prison. (I just thought of a million things Niles would say in response to that.)

Well, after that not-so-Freudian slip, I suppose I can admit that there's a definite connection between the developments in my relationship with the butler and the beginning of this journal.

Perhaps I should begin with the proposal. In the moment that I knew what he was doing, something happened. Something like a whirring sensation, like I was shooting through a kaleidoscope. I have no idea what it means and I'm not telling anyone in case it means I'm losing my mind.

I said yes. Of course I did. He's an amazing, magnificent pain in my ass. He means a lot to me. I'm excited to marry him. Right? Yes. I'm going to marry him. And in any case, the wedding isn't happening _tomorrow_ so whatever uncertainties I may be having (and I'm not having any) will go away in time.

V.

Here's something inexplicable and annoying that happened today. So yes, naturally, it happened with Nanny Fine.

I had just gotten to work when she yanked me into the living room, where it was brighter, and thrust my hand out to show Val. I hadn't realized she hadn't seen the ring. In truth, sometimes I forget I'm wearing it. Anyway, Niles had proposed on a Friday and I was at the theater on Monday and Tuesday, so she hadn't seen me. Heartbreaking for both parties, I'm sure.

"Oy, Val, I'm just so _dijgrath_, can ya believe Miss Babcock got a ring before me?" Fran exclaimed. (Can't understand or spell Yiddish.)

"What a rock, Miss Babcock," Val said, probably hypnotized by the light flashing off the ring. It is a beautiful ring. "Why do they call diamonds rocks, Fran?"

"Ugh, Val, such a _kvagrigrvgr_. It's because women used to fight with rocks over the diamonds in the village," Fran replied faux-knowledgably.

I remained silent because they were both touching my hand and because I feared that if I opened my mouth, the stupidity in the air would leak in and infect my brain.

"How did he do it, Miss Babcock? How did he ask?" Fran wanted to know.

I told them the whole story. It is a beautiful story. At this point, my irritation was at a 15, which is the standard-grade level of irritation when I'm in the room with Nanny Fine. (For further reference, it's on a normed scale to 100.) I didn't even add the usual 5 for Val because she was staying silent. It's one of the only things I respect about her, but I suspect it's out of necessity when Fran is your best friend.

Before I knew it, I was swept up to Fran's room and handed stacks of bridal magazines, the weight of which rivaled the biggest stack of scripts I've ever had. She handed me a red pen, which I thought was daring considering the murderous look in my eyes. A veil appeared out of nowhere, and Val quickly attached it to my head. Level 45.

Minutes later, Fran and Val had planned my destination wedding on a mountain in Tuscany. They were both somehow bridesmaids. When they began discussing the rustic Italian feast for the reception, I realized they were actually planning my wedding without me. Level 60.

"Before you decide the names of my children, can you take a breath, please?" I snapped in my most WASPish voice.

Instead of scaring them, both of their faces transformed into dreamlike expressions. Smiles took up half of their faces. "Children?" they cooed in unison. Level 75.

I yanked the veil off of my head and threw it against the wall, where it skittered to the floor.

"Hey!" Fran squawked. Level 80.

"Just. Stop." It's all I could get out because my jaw was hinging shut, an unfortunate effect of levels 80 and above. Niles once joked that it happens because it's my conscience trying to prevent my jaw from dislocating itself to swallow my prey whole. At this moment, I did not doubt the accuracy of that statement at all.

"Miss Babcock…what's wrong? This is what women do," Nanny Fine told me.

"This is not what I do." It isn't.

"Well, why not? Aren't you excited to marry Niles?" Val asked innocently. She really did, in that wide-eyed way of village idiots everywhere.

But something happened. I don't know what it was. I wanted to rip the ring off my finger and send it to follow the veil. I wanted to throw all of the ridiculous bridal magazines out of the window. I wanted to run. I just wanted them to stop talking about my wedding. Level 85.

So I just left. Not just her room—the whole house. Maxwell was expecting me for a budget meeting and Niles was probably worried about my lateness. But I just left.

I'd try to think of reasons why but I'm too angry reliving the memory right now. Journals are stupid if the only purpose they serve is to relive awful moments and situations you'd be better off forgetting.

Before I go make myself a vodka tonic, I'd like to say: yes. I am excited to marry him. I am. I am.


	4. Part Four

Part Four: During

_October_

I.

I write this as Niles and Maxwell are at a pub, watching a football game. To clarify: not the _real_ football with the tight pants and beefy men. English football. Soccer. I tried watching a match with him but I found it interminably boring—as I find most sporting events.

He knows about this journal and has never once asked to see it. I also know for a fact that he hasn't tried to sneak a peek, either, as I have several security measures in place. I consider this a testament to his character: a man who never met an intercom his ear wasn't glued to will eschew his natural curiosity (read: yenta) because of his respect for me. Another indication that he is as close to perfect as a person can be.

And yet.

I have doubts. Not about _him_, of course. About me. About everything that makes me _me_, the person heretofore incapable of finding love. I found lust. I found money grubbers. Not much else.

Case in point: several days ago, he gave me a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine to celebrate 11 months of our relationship. Not only did I not know it was our 11th month—oh, no, when I hurried out during lunch to Williams-Sonoma to find something for him, I had to settle on a spatula. _A spatula_. Sure, it's a titanium spatula with an ergonomic handle, but at the end of the day, it's still something you use to flip a pancake or an omelet. And I bought it for my boyfriend.

I'm awful at this whole relationship thing.

II.

I've been trying to be more introspective lately. It isn't easy, after decades of being trained to ignore those things called "emotions" and that inner voice called "a conscience." But I think I'm getting better at it. I was inspired by the spatula fiasco in an effort to discover why I'm an awful girlfriend.

I haven't gotten anywhere on that department, but I have thought of a few things. For example, the other day, I kept telling myself that I had to drive a different route to work because of construction. Every morning during rush hour, it turns into an absolute gridlock. So I told myself, the night before and the morning of, over and over to drive a different route.

What did I do? I got right in the Benz and drove straight into the traffic jam. Normally this doesn't inspire some sort of internal epiphany, but when combined with what happened later, it did for me.

During lunch, I stood in line at the deli near the theater to order a different sandwich. I usually went for the turkey but had decided I wanted to try the roast chicken. (I'm a daring adventurist if nothing else.) By the time I reached the register, I was making a note in my palm pilot and ordered the turkey sandwich without thinking.

As I ate lunch, I actually started thinking. And I began wondering how much of our lives are dictated by habit. The steps we take and the words we speak and even the thoughts we think…how much of it is what we want and intend and how much of it is just dictated by force of the familiar?

How, then, do we know what it is we feel? Do we feel it because it's true and genuine, or do we feel it because we're simply used to it? How can we then make decisions about the future? How do you know what to think or do or say or feel?

III.

Today was a horrendous day. I reached annoyance level 70—almost unprecedented if Nanny Fine isn't around. The main understudy called in because of "boyfriend issues," the set designer and the set builder aren't seeing "eye to eye" (despite my threats to knock them "head to head"), and Maxwell seems to be competing with himself to see how utterly useless he can be.

That last one might seem mean but if you knew Maxwell (yes, you, you inanimate journal), truth trumps tact.

Niles seemed to realize from the tone of my voice the type of day I was having. When I arrived back at the penthouse, my favorite meal from Trattoria was waiting—and Niles wasn't. So this urged me into another moment of reflection.

The understudy didn't come to work because she was having issues with her boyfriend. It's unfortunate that I actually recall some of her complaints: he stays out too late and never explains where he's been, he flaked out on a weekend at the lake with her parents a few months ago, he isn't supportive, blah blah blahhhh. The usual complaints of a girl done wrong by her own poor judgment.

And yet I can't claim any sort of camaraderie with her. I understand that one of the highest points of bonding among women is the daily complaining of the boyfriend. And I have nothing to say. Yes, he's a pain in my ass, an ass that he'll never fail to insult before squeezing it admiringly…but he doesn't seem plagued by any of the evolutionary flaws among his species.

He knows me enough to know that I was craving my favorite comfort food meal after a terrible day, and he knows me even better by letting me be by myself. And not once will he complain.

He is the nicest man. I don't know why he loves me.

IV.

I shared snippets of my last entry with Dr. Bort. (Snippets…what a fun word. I should use it more.) She followed it up with this little nugget of wisdom:

_"We accept the love we think we deserve."_

I told her she has a bright future at Hallmark, should she ever decide to venture into the greeting card business.

She raises a fair point, though. Let's look at what I said about Understudy (that's her official name, as I can't be bothered to learn the actual one): she's a girl done wrong by her own poor judgment. Isn't that of the same mentality? Understudy clearly doesn't believe she deserves better or she would've kicked Loser to the curb months ago.

It certainly seems that we apply this platitude to situations that are negative. If Understudy only accepts the love she thinks she deserves, then she obviously believes she deserves very little.

But we never seem to discuss a person who might internally reject love from a great person because she knows she doesn't deserve it.

V.

There is something wrong with me. I believe there is something ineffably wrong with me. (Really, what a wordsmith. My talents are wasted. Ineffable: (adj) indescribable, overwhelming, deep, unspeakable. What a tricky little word for a tricky little person.)

My prowess with words notwithstanding, there are a number of things truly wrong with me. The director's assistant—because that's just what theater needs, a demon who thinks he knows and controls all with another head to agree with him—started flirting with me today. He's a cocky little bastard with this stupid smirk on his face. Annoying in the worst kind of way, in that he's actually annoying. I find him insufferable in the way that I actually want to make him suffer. I try to not be in the same room as him.

When I first interacted with him, I thought of Niles. I thought, _Niles would think of a better way to say that_. I thought, _Niles would sweep you right off this stage, you cocky little bastard. _I thought, _Niles would Lemon-Pledge that stupid smirk right off your face._ Then I thought of Niles in the more general ways in which I think of him, usually naked or serving me food or naked and serving me food. It filled me with a sense of righteousness and rightness and satisfaction in my relationship with Niles.

But today. When he started flirting with me. It was almost as if Niles slipped from my brain and my heart and the edge of the world. Because I did the thing I would normally do, I did what I always used to do, and I did what I hadn't done in a long time.

I flirted back.


	5. Part Five

[A/N: I haven't updated this in 3 months. My apologies. School started and I hit a bit of writer's block. But apparently I'd had this written the entire time so...it shall be finished soon.]

Part Five: Aftermath

_March_

The small, rectangular book with its papyrus-esque paper sat on his bedside table. He'd received it two weeks ago and somehow, the man who'd never left a diary unthumbed couldn't bring himself to open this one. After turning off all the lights in the manse, a task that usually took fifteen minutes, Niles had arrived in his room to see a box on his bed. It wasn't wrapped; it wasn't even taped. It only had a folded piece of paper set atop it, which read:

_Niles,_

_When I try to say the words out loud, they get jumbled and eventually lost. When I try to find the answers, I get mired in the questions. I give this to you, the man who loves mind games and word games and all sorts of games, with the hope that maybe you will see something I can't. _

_Maybe someday we can exist in place where the sun isn't so bright that we'd need curtains at all. _

_CC_

At first, Niles felt a grudging respect that CC had somehow entered the house and his bedroom without his knowledge. She hadn't been working out of the house for several months now, lending credence to his belief that she'd worked from that loveseat in the office all those years to spend more time bickering with him.

Months ago, the surprise that CC Babcock, woman of virtually no introspective capabilities, had kept a diary had initially fostered a burning curiosity in him to read it. But now that he actually had it, something always quelled his hand as he went to reach for it.

The tradition continued, this time in the form of Maxwell, as Niles slowly leaned toward his nightstand.

A quick two-tap knock and then his salt-and-pepper hair showed itself over the threshold. "Evening, old man. What do you say to a quick drink?"

Niles had been on the receiving end of what was most likely Fran's social initiatives for several weeks now, but he couldn't truthfully say that he minded.

"Sounds wonderful," Niles responded, straightening up and unnecessarily smoothing out his slacks.

"Fantastic. Let's get on, then," Max said, backing out of Niles' room and leading him out the front door.

The crisp night air met them like a quick shove, momentarily slowing their footsteps.

"The pub?" Niles guessed, referring to the bar two blocks away that put a British flag over the threshold and served mediocre fish and chips in order to call itself a quaint pub.

"If that's fine with you," Maxwell replied, already belying his alleged intentions and displaying his awkwardness. Conversations with his butler had never been an issue before, but Niles suspected that the white elephant that he called his ex-fiancé stood between even them, an insurmountable obstacle for Niles and a conversational inconvenience for Maxwell. Neither wanted to discuss it but neither knew a safe way around it.

Minutes later, a bell chimed as the two men entered the pub. The English bartender saw them and immediately uncapped two bottles of Boddington's, sliding them in front of the duo's preferred seats. As Niles sat down, he realized that Maxwell had been his only date aside from CC in the last two years.

"So, old man, how are things?" Maxwell asked as though they didn't see each other dozens of times per day.

Niles nodded, taking a quick sip of his beer. His renewed interest in CC's diary spurned on his unusual answer. "I almost read her diary tonight."

Maxwell paused for a second with the bottle against his lips. "Her…ah…her diary? You stole it from her?"

Niles laughed, imagining that he definitely would have years ago. "No, nothing like that. She sent it to me two weeks ago."

"As a peace offering?"

He shook his head, although that may have been part of her intentions. "I think it's an effort to help me understand what's going through her mind."

"Best of luck to you, then, old man," Maxwell said, proffering his bottle for a cheer. "I never could understand them. Especially CC." Max looked at Niles quickly, a concerned look on his face. "What I mean, of course, is that—"

"Is that she's the most difficult person in the world," Niles completed for him. "No apologies necessary. She is."

"Why haven't you read it yet? I'd imagine a man of your…curiosity would be rather eager to."

"I was. I _am_," he corrected. "It's…well, I don't entirely know why I haven't read it."

"Maybe you're afraid of what you'll find," Maxwell hazarded to guess. "Especially if she wrote in it around the time she…around the time she cheated on you."

Niles stared intently through his beer bottle, watching it distort the other side of the bar. "She never cheated on me," he said quietly.

"But…you said you found her in b—" Maxwell began.

"I know," Niles interrupted quickly. He blinked and looked above his bottle to see the bar normally. "She never slept with him."

Max's face crumpled in confusion. "Old man, I'm a little confused."

"Join the club," Niles muttered. He sighed and leaned back against the barstool. "I know what CC looks like after…" Niles stopped himself and closed his eyes. "She didn't have sex with him."

"Oh." Maxwell, for wont of anything else to do, took another swig of his beer. "Well, then, that's not so bad, huh?"

Niles' face split, betraying his sadness for a moment. "Isn't it? She _wanted_ to. She at least tried to."

Maxwell thought about it for a moment before responding. "I don't think she wanted to because…well, you know CC. If she wants to do something, very little will stop her."

Niles waved these things away, shaking his head. "I misspoke. She didn't want to sleep with him. She wanted to end our relationship. She was looking for an out." It was the millionth time Niles thought it and the first time he spoke it aloud, but it was the only time the idea hit him with the force of a wrecking ball.

…

With the strength of three beers flowing through him, Niles shut the door to his bedroom, walked over to sit on the edge of his bed, and grabbed the diary. He cursed his pounding heart and his anxious head, praying that the words in this small black book would bring him some sort of peace.

He took a deep, unsteadied breath and opened the book for the first time.

Thirty minutes later, with the diary still in hand and a coat slung across his arm, Niles pulled open the door of the Mercedes and slid inside.


End file.
